


that ever i was born to set it right

by postcardmystery



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:10:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver blinks and a truck roars past him; Geoffrey gets arrested again when the cops come after a noise complaint; Ellen goes home and cries.</p><p>In another world, Geoffrey Tennant is a man haunted. No, wait. In another world, Geoffrey Tennant is haunted by a very <i>specific</i> ghost.</p><p>This Geoffrey Tennant sticks to generalities, thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that ever i was born to set it right

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for mental illness (bipolar disorder), Geoffrey's suicide attempt and subsequent hospitalisation, and self-harm.

Oliver blinks and a truck roars past him; Geoffrey gets arrested again when the cops come after a noise complaint; Ellen goes home and cries.  
  
In another world, Geoffrey Tennant is a man haunted. No, wait. In another world, Geoffrey Tennant is haunted by a very  _specific_  ghost.  
  
This Geoffrey Tennant sticks to generalities, thanks.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“So I hear you got arrested again,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey slams his head against the wall, says, “How much clearer did I need to be, Oliver?”  
  
“Oh, not at all, I just ignored you,” says Oliver, his chuckle dark over the phone line, and Geoffrey grits his teeth, says, “Well, so much for apologies, then.”  
  
“Did I apologise last night? Do you know, I can’t remember,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey scrubs a hand through his hair, (worse than usual, yes, good, he’ll deal with that later), says, “Yes, sobbing drunk was never your best state, was it? Stop fucking calling me, Oliver, I’ve got a play to direct.”  
  
“I’ve got something better for you,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey laughs, high and mocking, says, “Oh, well, do tell, I’ve always wanted to have another nervous breakdown--”  
  
“Hamlet,” says Oliver, his voice deep with echoes, and Geoffrey is silent for a long, long minute, and then simply says, “Fuck off.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Shut up,” says Oliver, and Anna closes her mouth, pushes his mail to him, and he picks it up, shoves his sunglasses up onto his head, and says, “Call this number.”  
  
“But--” says Anna, and Oliver says, “ _Shut up_. Call this number, and tell him to direct, not to act.”  
  
“But--” says Anna, and Oliver stalks away, tosses back over his shoulder, “Yes, now you may talk.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Fuck  _off_ ,” says Geoffrey, and Anna says, “Oh my  _God_ , he, I, I, he didn’t tell me whose number it was--”  
  
“ _Anna_?” says Geoffrey, and Anna laughs, startled, says, “So you’re not chained to your theatre anymore? I saw it on the television.”  
  
“Regrettably,” says Geoffrey, rubbing at his temples, “I am not.”  
  
“I’m really sorry, Geoffrey,” says Anna, and Geoffrey laughs softly, says, “Don’t be, Anna. He’s a bastard to everyone.  _Modus operandi bastardi_. What did he want this time?”  
  
“He says, um, he says to direct? And not to act?” says Anna, and Geoffrey closes his eyes, says, “Pistols at dawn, then,” and hangs up the phone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Um, Oliver?” says Anna, and something in her tone makes the hackles on the back of Oliver’s neck stand up.  
  
“ _Yes_?” he says, in a vicious undertone, as that American boy continues to slaughter the Bard on the stage.  
  
“Geoffrey Tennant is outside for you,” says Anna, and Oliver sighs, heavy with relief, says, “I thought as much. I’ll be literally a minute, do ask him to wait, there’s a dear.”  
  
Oliver turns back to the stage and Anna taps nervous fingers against the back of his seat, says, “Um, no. I don’t think you understand. Geoffrey Tennant is outside for you. Outside the  _theatre_. Shouting. I, er, I think he has a  _sword_.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“What the  _fuck_ , Geoffrey,” says Ellen, and Geoffrey points the tip of his sword at Oliver, says, “Exactly the  _correct_  amount of fuck, my dear. Hello, Ellen. You look well. Hello, Oliver. You’re about to look much worse.”  
  
“I’m calling the police,” says Ellen, and Geoffrey laughs, says, “No, you aren’t. Put away the harpy routine, it doesn’t suit you. Oh, wait--”  
  
“Fuck  _you_ \--” starts Ellen, and Oliver holds his hands up, says, “Seven years is a long time to wait to stab a man, Geoffrey.”  
  
“Yes, well,” says Geoffrey, slowly circling closer, “it took a long time for my medication to even out.”  
  
“There’s a gun in my desk, old boy,” says Oliver, very calmly, and Geoffrey sighs, sheathes his sword, says, “No, there isn’t. But there’d better be some fucking whisky.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“They call you the Crazy Dane, you know,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey cocks his head, shifts his feet from their position on Oliver’s desk, says, “Well, that’s hardly fair. I’m far saner than Derek Jacobi. Man’s an _Oxfordian_.”  
  
“ _Be that as it may_ ,” says Oliver, raising his voice just a little, “you will have to prove that you aren’t a safety hazard, you understand?”  
  
Geoffrey holds his hands up, says, “What else do you want from me? Anna has my sword, I’m drinking water, and I’ll give you an itemised list of my medication if I must. Well, no, I  _won’t_  do that, but I’m sure I can restrain myself from chaining myself to anything for, oh, say forty-eight hours or so at the very  _least_.”  
  
“You know, you’re never quite as funny as you think you are,” says Oliver, eyebrow raised, and Oliver’s office door is flung open as a voice says, “Oh my  _God_ , why is the crazy man with a sword in your office, oh my God, is he going to attack  _me_  now I’ve said that--”  
  
“Oh, dear boy,” says Oliver, waving an expressive hand, “meet Richard.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“How many of these do you want me to sign?” says Geoffrey, and Richard narrows his eyes, says, “Well, preferably, all of them.”  
  
“Are you going to try and sell my kidneys if I die?” says Geoffrey, pen pressed to his lips, “Because I think the lithium’s foiled that dastardly plan.”  
  
“Uh,” says Richard, as Geoffrey spreads his hands over myriad forms and  _scrunches_ , “okay, you know what, I think these three are the most  _pressing_ \--”  
  
“He’ll sign them,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey starts to laugh, says, “Sir, yes, sir. Whatever would I do if you couldn’t blame me if the theatre burns down or I stab someone or Oliver drives another Hamlet wailing from the stage--”  
  
“ _Sign the fucking forms_ ,” hisses Oliver, as Richard’s eyes dart between the two of them like a tennis match, and Geoffrey makes a face, does.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“So, where’s your Hamlet, part deux?” says Geoffrey, after Richard has shooed them from his office with no little terror in his voice.  
  
“You are forbidden from calling him that,” says Oliver, “and anyway,  _you_  were Hamlet part deux. My first Dane was at university, you know that.”  
  
“Yes, but ‘Hamlet, part trois’ doesn’t have quite the same  _ring_  to it, does it?” says Geoffrey, and Oliver rolls his eyes, says, “Isn’t that more my line? A beautiful lie being more worthy than the truth.”  
  
“You said it, not me,” says Geoffrey, and Oliver raises an eyebrow, answers Geoffrey’s smirk with one of his own.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Welcome,” says Geoffrey, clapping his hands together, and the theatre goes silent. Ellen sits down, sullen, and fidgets with the hem of her dress.  
  
“Now, to begin,” says Geoffrey, grinning and doing a flamboyant, impromptu bow, “I believe that most of you have heard of me. I know  _you_  have, Ellen, oh, look! How I missed that look of utter disdain. Now, it was seven long years ago--”  
  
“I haven’t heard of you,” says Jack, and an audible groan goes up from the company. Geoffrey’s grin turns to steel, and he says, “Jack Crew, I presume?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” says Jack, and Geoffrey’s grin turns wicked as he says, “Then it matters not to you who I am, young man, for I am your director, and all directors are the same. Isn’t that right, Oliver?”  
  
“Oh,” says Oliver, from where he lounges at the back of the theatre, his smirk equally wicked, “yes, of course.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“What the fuck is he doing here, Oliver?” says Ellen, her eyes wild, and Oliver slams shut her dressing room door, says, a snarl in his voice, “I’m getting old, Ellen, much as I loathe to admit it. The show must go on.”  
  
“But with  _him_ \--” says Ellen, and stops, guilty, as the door opens and Geoffrey sticks his head around the door, sing-songs, “My ears were burning, and, oh, look! Once again, it is my two least favourite people in the whole world come to plot against me.”  
  
“You hate Darren Nichols effortlessly more than you hate me,” says Oliver, with easy confidence, and Geoffrey raises a threatening eyebrow, opens his mouth to speak, and Ellen waves her hands in the air, says, “For God’s sake, Geoffrey! Oliver  _hired_  you! Why would he be plotting against you, you’re so  _paranoid_ , are you sure it’s not schizophrenia you’ve got?”  
  
“Why,  _thank you_ , Ellen,” says Geoffrey, his voice a roar of fury as he throws the door open and shut in one smooth motion, “thank you so much for a diagnosis that was one of several offered through months of a painful sectioning. You know very well what I’ve got, and you know  _why_ , too--”  
  
“You know, Geoffrey,” says Oliver, his voice very quiet, “I did some reading on what you’ve got, after that little incident. And do you know what I learnt? That it’s innate. That it was always going to--”  
  
“Go fuck yourself, the both of you,” says Geoffrey, and leaves without shutting the door.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Oh, Geoffrey,” says Richard, walking into Oliver’s office without knocking, “I’m so glad to catch you, is Oliver around, too?”  
  
“Oliver is hiding from me, the cowardly peon,” says Geoffrey, not looking up from his savagely annotated text, and Richard frowns, says, “But you’re, uh, the one in his office--”  
  
“Yes, that’s how I am ensuring that he will continue to hide from me, because he knows exactly where I am, ergo, he can continue hiding, and I can continue happily deluding myself that he does not exist, it’s good for all of us,” says Geoffrey, looking up from his work, ink smeared on his cheekbone, “I’m sorry, did you want something?”  
  
“We still need a director for  _Endgame_ ,” says Richard, and Geoffrey shrugs, says, “Have Oliver do it. For an artistic director, he doesn’t seem to get up to very much.”  
  
“I’ve already called Darren Nichols,” says Richard, and then, well, he goes very white,  _very_  quickly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I should have put it in my contract!” yells Geoffrey, and Oliver sighs and says, “This is all very droll, Geoffrey, but I think you ought to let Richard have his tie back.”  
  
“I-- cannot--  _believe_ ,” hisses Geoffrey, sighs, his whole body going loose, and lets go of Richard’s tie. Oliver pushes Richard back and insinuates himself in the gap, says, “If this is your predictably dramatic way of telling us you’ve stopped taking your pills,  _bravo_ , dear boy, but I do think you’re going to have to cut it short now.”  
  
“I  _haven’t_  stopped taking my pills,” says Geoffrey, rounding on Oliver, “I just  _despise_  that pretentious little shit--”  
  
“Oh, do you mean me? I missed you, too, you unhinged bastard,” says a voice at the door, and Geoffrey whirls around, screams, “Does no one ever  _knock_  in this fucking place?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Did the French not like you, Darren?” says Geoffrey, his hands in knots in his hair, “I’m not surprised. They probably got a little sick of your brand of showboating after the Terror.”  
  
“Well isn’t that the heavily medicated pot calling the kettle black?” says Darren, long fingers twisting lazily into his scarf. “Admit it, Geoffrey, Canada missed me. Perhaps even you did.”  
  
“Yes, whatever would I do without someone to drag up my psychiatric history while wearing hideous scarves? You’re right, I ought to have organised a parade--” says Geoffrey, but Oliver says, very slow, “Boys. Stop it.  _Now_.”  
  
“But--” says Geoffrey, his voice high with indignation, and Oliver waves a hand, says, “ _No_. Now, Geoffrey, I fully understand that you do not share Darren’s vision of Beckett with, er, full frontal nudity, and _you_ , Darren, may believe that Geoffrey flushes all his pills down the loo and is just waiting for his chance to strike, but I do not  _care_. I will not have discord in my theatre! Is that clear?”  
  
“Fucking drama queen,” mutters Geoffrey, which is a  _yes_ , and Darren, looking a little dazed, merely nods.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“He’s doing  _Endgame_  naked,” says Geoffrey, his eyes distant, “not just the actors, him, too. Directing it.  _Naked_.”  
  
Cyril snorts, says, “Well, people’ll come to see it, won’t they?”  
  
“It will certainly give a new meaning to ‘Theatre of the Absurd’, I suppose,” says Geoffrey, and when Cyril claps him on the back, he manages a smile.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“When was the last time you went home?” says Anna, gently, and Geoffrey looks up from his ungainly book-pile on Oliver’s office floor, says, “What day is it?”  
  
“Tuesday,” says Anna, visibly already nervous, and Geoffrey cocks his head, mimes thinking hard, and says, “Oh, well, in that case: three weeks.”  
  
“I-- where do you sleep?” says Anna, and Geoffrey grins, only a little sad, says, “The question you  _should_  be asking me, Anna, is ‘where do you  _wash_?’ No, you’re very right, it’s better not to know. Unanswered questions do not have the same power to haunt, after all.”  
  
“Um, Geoffrey,” says Anna, closing the door as quietly as she can, “you don’t actually have anywhere to live, do you?”  
  
“I never seem to get around to it,” says Geoffrey, in a tone that sounds a lot like he’s admitting to something else.  
  
“I can make some calls,” says Anna, sitting down on the floor beside him, “will you be okay for tonight?”  
  
“The prop cupboard’s still there, isn’t it?” says Geoffrey, and although he didn’t mean to, that teases out a smile, anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Your Hamlet’s rather a mess, isn’t he?” says Darren, and Geoffrey falls at the first hurdle,  _defend thy cast_ , says, “At least I’m not flashing my company for the sake of artistic integrity.”  
  
“You wouldn’t know artistic integrity if it bit you on the arse,” says Darren, smiling slightly, and Geoffrey swats Darren’s hand away from his coffee, says, “Well, at least that makes two of us.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“He is, in fact, rather a mess,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey buries his head in his text, moans, “What are you even  _doing_  here? Go and torture Darren, his Nell was crying hysterically in the toilets not even ten minutes ago.”  
  
“Really?” says Oliver, sliding in closer, “However do you know these things? Who told you? Was it Ellen?”  
  
“Ellen is currently amusing herself with ignoring all of my direction and storming off the stage every three minutes to go and smoke in the parking lot,” says Geoffrey, pushing Oliver away from him, “no, it was the fair Ophelia. Or her understudy, at any rate. Kate, I think her name is.”  
  
“You don’t know her  _name_?” says Oliver, and Geoffrey sighs, says, “I can already hear you starting the juggernaut of judgement, Oliver. No, she is Ophelia because she  _is_  Ophelia. She’s much better than that Claire girl, which pit of Hell did she crawl out of to ruin me?”  
  
“She’s the niece of a donor--” starts Oliver, and Geoffrey puts his hands up, says, “No, no more, don’t tell me, oh,  _God_ , shut up, woman, just stop it, everyone, just, God, everyone just  _stand still_. There you go, excellent, perhaps we’ll just do the whole play like that--”  
  
“You’re not exactly disproving the ‘unstable’ legend,” says Oliver, as Claire stalks off the stage, and Geoffrey makes a very rude gesture and leaves the theatre.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Sit down,” says Oliver, and locks his office door.  
  
“Don’t think I will, thank you,” says Geoffrey, “for I must go and watch Claire stagger around the stage like a drunken aunt at a wedding and attempt not to stab out my eyes with my pen. Kindly  _move_.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” says Oliver, and shoves Geoffrey into his office chair, “you are the director of this play and it is your task to fix it.”  
  
“Fix  _what_?” says Geoffrey, throwing his hands up in the air, “The fact that Jack never says any of his lines? Which would be an irritation with the most avant-garde of free-association texts, but with _Shakespeare_? It’s like watching a pig try and write Proust. Do not even let me begin on Claire, because I rather think she is a piece of witchcraft you created to prick at me--”  
  
“What is the worst of these problems?” says Oliver, slamming his hand down on the desk, “Tell me right now,  _which is currently the worst_?”  
  
“That-- that is not what madness looks like,” says Geoffrey, his eyes widening, “and it’s most certainly not what it  _feels_  like.”  
  
“Excellent,” says Oliver, rearranging the papers on his desk, “now you may have the key.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“And how does staggering about with your mouth open suggest madness?” says Geoffrey, and feels something in him shift.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Your Hamlet’s still shit,” says Darren, and Geoffrey grins, says, “Oh, Darren, my boy, give it time. And put some fucking clothes on, for God’s sake.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Has Ellen deigned to start speaking to you once more?” says Oliver, and Geoffrey shrugs, says, “No, I do not believe she has. I haven’t checked, though, too busy directing your play, you see.”  
  
“Oh, heterosexuals,” says Oliver, shoving Geoffrey’s feet off his desk, “you’re a funny bunch.”  
  
“I don’t know why you always assumed that,” says Geoffrey, glaring up at Oliver and Oliver starts, says, “Assumed  _what_?”  
  
“My presumed heterosexuality, Oliver,” says Geoffrey, starting to grin, “it’s so very you, Oliver, to not ask an important question you believe yourself entirely clever enough to know the answer to.”  
  
“Are, are you not--” starts Oliver, and Geoffrey waves a dismissive hand, says, “No, Oliver. You are entirely fifteen years too late to be permitted to ask me that. Now, what do you think of the lighting in Act Three?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I think we need to talk about the budget,” says Richard, and silence reigns.  
  
“Because we’re, er, over it. By quite a bit,” says Richard, and Darren inspects his nails. Geoffrey isn’t even listening, and Oliver’s sharp quip is conspicuous by its absence.  
  
“And I can’t really give you the extra lights you wanted, Darren--” says Richard, and Oliver seems to blur into life, says, “I’m going to stop you right there, Richard.”  
  
“Oh, okay,” says Richard, lamely, and Oliver smiles. It is not a nice smile.  
  
“Here is your job, as I see it,” says Oliver, smiling wider, “we, your directors, come to you, and we require things. You, as financial director, see that those things are provided. Are we clear?”  
  
“But, I, what if we end up running at a loss?” says Richard, and Oliver’s smile turns deadly. He snaps his fingers, and Geoffrey opens his eyes and says, “Yes, Oliver?”  
  
“Geoffrey, darling, what is the profit margin like on a play that never opens?” says Oliver, and Geoffrey throws a glance to Darren, revels in their perfect, identical smirks.  
  
“See to it,” says Oliver, and sweeps from the room, Geoffrey and Darren electric in his wake.  
  
“Ah, right,” says Richard, to an empty room, and picks up his phone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You have to start talking to me eventually, you know,” says Geoffrey, through Ellen’s dressing room door, “you know how precious you get about your  _directors_.”  
  
“My director has never been  _you_ , Geoffrey,” says Ellen, her voice muffled by the wood, and Geoffrey rolls his eyes, comforted by the knowledge that she can’t see him, says, “Be that as it may, you aren’t acting out there, and a Gertrude that does not act is no Gertrude of mine.”  
  
“Aw,” says Ellen, her voice rising with indignation, “that was almost profound. Go away, Geoffrey.”  
  
“Make me believe it,” says Geoffrey, and dashes down the corridor before Ellen has time to open the door.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“What do you feel in this scene?” says Geoffrey, and Jack squints, says, “Uh, I’m upset?”  
  
“You are  _upset_ ,” says Geoffrey, freezing for a moment, and then he shakes himself back into life, “you just killed a man, your mother is hysterical, and you are being driven mad by a ghost only you can see? Yes, I do suppose  _upset_  ought to cover it.”  
  
“I don’t know what that means,” says Jack, and Geoffrey sighs, says, “Yes. Unfortunately,  _that_ , I already know.”  
  
“So, uh, should I--” starts Jack, and Geoffrey waves his arms, says, “Whatever you were about to suggest,  _no_. In fact, let’s do the opposite of that, shall we?”  
  
“I should go and stand on the other side of the stage to Gertrude?” says Jack, frowning, and Geoffrey sits up ramrod straight in his seat, yells, “Yes! That is exactly what you do. Start off over there, go on. You kill Polonius and you wander back and forth like a caged animal. You want to get close to your mother, but something is stopping you. But then, then, it isn’t.”  
  
“Yeah, but when?” says Jack, and Geoffrey’s eyes shine as he says, “ _O Hamlet, speak no more_ , at that, put your hands around her  _throat_.”  
  
“ _Jesus_ ,” says Jack, and Geoffrey grins, says, “Well, we can but hope.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Geoffrey sits in an empty apartment, and opens a suitcase. It contains: three white shirts, one pair of black pants, and forty-three books.  
  
“Everyone must start somewhere, I suppose,” he says, and if something flits by the corner of his eye, his doesn’t acknowledge its passing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Do you know, you’re very literal, Geoffrey,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey frowns, says, “I can say with great certainty that one’s ever told me that before, Oliver.”  
  
“I told you to co-operate with Darren,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey sighs theatrically, says, “And I  _did_  that, did I not?”  
  
“You sat naked in his office, with  _all the lights off_ , waiting for him,” says Oliver, musing, “so in your crazy rat-maze of a brain you probably do think that is what co-operation looks like.”  
  
“Hmm, well,” says Geoffrey, and Oliver snorts, anger clear in his tone, “Oh, I forgot, you have ‘issues’ with that word. ‘Crazy.’ It’s a pity it seems to fit you so well, then, isn’t it? Are you quite sure you aren’t a serial killer?”  
  
“I am much too erratic to be a serial killer, I assure you,” says Geoffrey, and Oliver sighs, says, “You know, it’s really quite terrifying that you genuinely think that’s comforting.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“ _More matter with less art_ ,” says Ellen, significantly, from the stage, and Jack pulls the hood of his jacket up over his head, mutters, “I can’t even tell what part of that’s supposed to be insulting me, man.”  
  
“No, dear boy,” says Geoffrey, tugging Jack’s hood down, “that one was aimed squarely at me, I’m afraid.”  
  
“But she hates me, dude,” says Jack, and Geoffrey shrugs, says, “She’s playing your mother. It’s very apt. Anyway, she hates me more.”  
  
“What happened to the two of you?” says Jack, almost shy, and Geoffrey looks down, says, soft, “Oh, the usual. Love.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I don’t want to talk to you, Geoffrey,” yells Darren, trying desperately to wedge his office door closed.  
  
“I was trying to assist with your artistic process,” says Geoffrey, not at all hiding the smirk plain on his face, and Darren makes a noise high with indignation, snarls, “Yes, well, your attempts to assist with my artistic process read like a court case,  _stop it_.”  
  
“But I was ordered to cooperate,” says Geoffrey, and Darren sighs, says, “What do you want me to say, Geoffrey? If I tell you not to, you’ll be a nightmare. If I tell you I want you to, you’ll try and stab me again, so really--”  
  
“Oh, it was  _one time_ ,” says Geoffrey, and Darren flings the door open, says, “Do you want another scar on your face, Geoffrey?  _Because I can provide that_.”  
  
Geoffrey snorts and says, “It was a lucky blow, Darren, and you know it. Do  _you_  want another scar? Yours is somewhere less daringly aesthetic, as I recall--”  
  
“What do you  _want_  from me, Geoffrey?” says Darren, his whole form sagging against the doorframe, “ _I cannot help being other than what I am_ , isn’t it you who said that to me, what, eleven years ago, now? And look at you! Riddled with manic-depression, lurking in your colleague’s office with your cock out, still allergic to hair brushes and a good shave. Why do you ask something of me that  _you_  are far from willing to give?”  
  
Geoffrey opens his mouth, closes it again, and says, his eyes wide, “You know, Darren, that was an  _excellent_  point you just made.”  
  
“Yes, I know,” says Darren smug, and Geoffrey grins, says, “Savour it, old enemy mine, because you shan’t get another one.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“We are going to fix things,” announces Geoffrey, and the company stares at him, aghast.  
  
“Geoff, darling,” says Oliver, leaning in, “when was the last time you took a shower?”  
  
“We are going to fix things,” says Geoffrey, his fingers twisting into his shirt, “ _tomorrow_. Everybody go home. Go on. Fuck off.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“So I trust you’re going to stop your attempts to murder me,” says Darren, and Geoffrey looks up from unlocking his car door, says, “Well, never say never. Toss a coin?”  
  
“Ah, once again my Rosencrantz,” says Darren, with the ease of patter decades old, and Geoffrey is only a little mocking when he answers, “Is that a no, Guildenstern?”  
  
“Never say never say never,” says Darren, and only flinches a little when Geoffrey opens his car door and then slams it with typical dramatic flair.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“It isn’t enough,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey pulls his sunglasses off with a scowl, says, “Oh,  _do_  tell me my failings.”  
  
“The boy’s the thing,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey sighs, says, “Fine, yes, Oliver, I think it  _is_  time for us to have this conversation. Why are you having  _me_  direct this play?”  
  
“Because I’m tired,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey raises his eyebrow, says, “Tired men do not get so involved in production.”  
  
“The play’s the thing,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey blinks, blinks, wakes up.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Did you break into the theatre last night?” says Anna, “Because Nahum says you were here when he got here this morning.”  
  
“Yes,” says Geoffrey, frantically rearranging Oliver’s miniature stage, “but also no.”  
  
“What does that mean-- what are you  _doing_?” says Anna, shutting the door, her eyes a little wild.  
  
“It means if you pay the right locksmith, you can get the keys to Parliament copied,” says Geoffrey, still not looking up, “and I’m  _blocking_ , Anna, what does it look like I’m doing?”  
  
“I’d rather not say,” Anna whispers, and Geoffrey looks up, sighs, says, “Can you get me some coffee, black? And maybe a gun?”  
  
“Gun jokes aren’t funny, Geoffrey,” says Anna, shuffling the files in her hands, “not after the, um, incident when you were Antony--”  
  
“Not funny, got it,” says Geoffrey, then sighs, sits down, says, “I’m sorry, Anna. Can you write it off as actor’s frailty, just this once?”  
  
“Just this once,” says Anna, smiling a little, opening the door, “milk and sugar?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“We,” says Geoffrey, “are going to fix this play.”  
  
“Excellent,” says Ellen, sitting down on her artfully bare throne, “what exactly does that mean?”  
  
“It means we shall make our Jack a Hamlet,” says Geoffrey, and Ellen sighs, just a bit too loud, and Jack glances down at the floor, evidently already defeated.  
  
“Start on stage right,” says Geoffrey, and Jack steps right, as Ellen looks furiously gratified behind him.  
  
“ _Stage_  right,” repeats Geoffrey, and Jack steps right again.  
  
“Oh my  _God_ ,” mutters Geoffrey, and Ellen storms off the stage for the fifth time in a week.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Here’s the thing,” says Geoffrey, and Jack looks up, his eyes tear-filled, “ _Hamlet_  is too big.”  
  
“Oh,  _God_ ,” mutters Jack, and wipes at his face, “fucking-- I can’t listen to this, not from another person, not again.”  
  
“No, you, okay--” says Geoffrey, and takes hold of Jack’s shoulders, shakes him until his teeth rattle. Jack, still numb with fear, doesn’t even meet Geoffrey’s eyes until Geoffrey sighs, clenches his jaw, and slaps Jack across the face.  
  
“What the fuck,” says Jack, dully, and Geoffrey hisses, “You  _aren’t listening to me_ , and, as your director, that makes me very nervous.  _Hamlet_ , as in  _the play_ , is too big. It is much too big for one mere actor to fulfil all of its constituent parts. It is always too big, for everyone, and there is no shame in being defeated by it.”  
  
“Then how do you do it, man?” says Jack, the tears welling up once more, and Geoffrey says, very slow, “You  _pick_  it. You pick your Hamlet. Is he after the throne? Is he a murderer born in denial? Is he in love with his mother? There are a million ways to play him, boy, but for God’s sake,  _pick one_.”  
  
“But  _how_?” says Jack, and Geoffrey slumps down beside him on the floor, says, “Do you want to hear the truest thing that Oliver has ever said to me? ‘Geoff, old boy, all Hamlets are a reflection of the man playing him.’ Now, ignoring the issues there with the Bernhardt Hamlet,  _that is all you need to know_. Your Hamlet is in you, as he is in all actors, all you have to do is look. All Hamlets are something. Ambitious. Cowardly. Weary. They  _are_  you, the you that you need to find. What’s yours?”  
  
“What was yours?” asks Jack, and, in Geoffrey, a dam breaks.  
  
“ _Manic_ ,” says Geoffrey, his eyes very wide, “huh.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Open the fucking  _door_ , Geoffrey,” says Darren, and Geoffrey slams his head into the wall beside the door, yells, “ _No_!”  
  
“Anna is crying, Geoffrey,” says Darren, his flippant tone trying to smooth over the wobble in his voice, “you know I cannot abide crying women. I cannot deal with her, so now you must  _come out_.”  
  
“How many guys have you said that to, eh?” says Geoffrey, and Darren does something that can only be described as  _growling_ , hisses, “ _One person in particular I can think of right now_ , doesn’t that sound familiar?”  
  
“I’m not coming out, Darren,” says Geoffrey, and Darren sits down, leans back against the door, says, “Well, I don’t really feel like reliving sophomore year, but if we  _must_. So, what, are you going to live in the men’s bathroom now?”  
  
“If I  _must_ ,” echoes Geoffrey, viciously, and Darren says, “I’m staying here until you come out, you know. In case there are good samaritan laws that would hold me responsible if you finally do the world a favour and slit your wrists.”  
  
“ _Fine_ ,” says Geoffrey, and closes his eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“A man talking nonsense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense not to himself,” says Darren, and Geoffrey squints, says, “You know I don’t like it when you try and understand text, Darren. Was that supposed to be profound?”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Darren, sneering a little, “you always tell me that’s your area.”  
  
“That’s because you and your hamfisted theatrics couldn’t find profound if you had it on a map,” says Geoffrey, and Darren smirks, says, “You’re the only locked in a bathroom, wailing. I dare you, Geoffrey, accuse  _me_  of theatrics one more time.”  
  
“Or  _what_?” says Geoffrey, mocking, and Darren smirks once more, and clicks his fingers.  
  
“Oh, very impressive--” says Geoffrey, and all the lights go out.  
  
“It’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it,” says Darren, just a voice in the dark, “stark raving sane.”  
  
“No,” says Geoffrey, but he doesn’t sound convincing, even to himself.  
  
“You know what they say,” says Darren, sing-song, “hell, you know what  _I_  say.”  
  
“He has moods,” says Geoffrey, repeating the words with the ease of old fondness, and Darren, somewhere in the dark, laughs.  
  
“He talks to himself, which might be madness,” says a voice next to Geoffrey’s ear, and Geoffrey shudders, shudders, and opens his eyes to--  
  
“Bloody fucking hell,” says Darren, as if from a great distance, “why are you yelling like that, I didn’t mean it about the razor! Geoffrey, for fuck’s sake, if you die on me I will give a eulogy at your funeral, I swear to Christ--”  
  
“I’m fine,” says Geoffrey, his lips numb, “shut the fuck up, Darren. I’m fine.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I need to be very drunk,” says Geoffrey, when he opens the door.  
  
“You went quiet for ten minutes,” says Darren, looking dazed, “I thought you were dead.”  
  
“I  _told_  you I wasn’t dead,” says Geoffrey, and Darren throws his hands up in the air, says, “Oh, well then! Because they always teach you to  _believe_  the suicide risk, that always ends well! I thought you weren’t even allowed to drink, what with your mind-boggling array of medications.”  
  
“I’m not,” says Geoffrey, “but fuck it. This way if I kill myself in a manic break, you get to watch. Are you in?”  
  
“There’s a possibility of seeing you die,” says Darren, straightening his scarf, “of course I’m in.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I hope you enjoyed prison, boys,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey groans, tries to pull his ripped shirt closed.  
  
“Geoffrey snores,” says Darren, rubbing absently at a bruise on his face, and Geoffrey scowls, says, “Shut up, Darren. You already knew that. Stop trying to find things to complain about.”  
  
“ _Me_?” hisses Darren, “Me trying to find things to complain about? You tried to kill that tourist!”  
  
“I merely grazed him at best,” says Geoffrey, giving up and stripping off his shirt and shoving it in the nearest trashcan, “anyway, it was his own fault. He asked me where the Renaissance fair was.”  
  
“You’re wearing a doublet, Geoffrey,” points out Oliver, quietly, and Darren says, “Can we just go somewhere with coffee, please? Else I will die, and I refuse to die in this fucking backwater of a town.”  
  
“What a charmer,” says Geoffrey, and Oliver closes his eyes, opens them, and says, “Get in the car.  _Now_.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I realise that I am not in the best of sorts,” says Geoffrey, as Darren, with no rehearsals today, snorts loudly behind him, “but never matter! The theatre waits for no man.”  
  
“I wish it didn’t have to wait for you,” says Ellen, and Geoffrey rounds on her, hisses, “Do not make me do this now, Ellen, because I will, and you  _will not like it_.”  
  
“What is he even doing here?” says Ellen, waving her hand at Darren, and Darren leans forwards, wincing, says, “It’s my punishment, darling. Oliver says I need to sit through this shitshow as penance.”  
  
“As penance for  _what_?” says Ellen, and Geoffrey throws a furious glance at Darren, says, “For his very existence, obviously. Now, are you my Gertrude, or no?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I told you to fix it,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey scrubs his hand through his filthy hair, says, “I know you did.”  
  
“This doesn’t look fixed to me,” says Oliver, as Jack stammers through  _to be or not to be_  on the stage.  
  
“I am tired of trying to guess what you want me to say,” says Geoffrey, folding his arms, and Oliver sighs, says, “I really do not know how you still do not understand, Geoffrey.”  
  
“Understand what?” says Geoffrey, and Oliver smiles, says, “How directing is not like acting.”  
  
“It’s nothing like acting,” says Geoffrey, “in fact, I can’t even imagine why you do it, there’s no real ego in it, as far as I can see.”  
  
“See, that is where you are entirely wrong, old boy,” says Oliver, “for directing is  _entirely_  ego. Acting is having an audience look at you every night. Directing is not that.”  
  
“Oh, do enlighten me,” says Geoffrey, rolling his eyes, failing to hide that he really does want to know the answer, and Oliver’s smile turns wicked as he says, “Directing is creating everything they see. There is nothing more about ego. It is stripping out your heart and putting it on display. Is this what you want your audience to see? Is this worth stripping out your heart?”  
  
Jack forgets another line, and Geoffrey shudders, buries his face in his coat, groans.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You are not my Hamlet,” says Geoffrey, in Jack’s dressing room, “and you are not  _your_  Hamlet.”  
  
“I can’t do this,” says Jack, his head in his hands, “oh, God, I’m sorry, Geoffrey, but I--”  
  
Geoffrey sits down on the floor, and says, light, “When you walk out onto the stage, Jack, what do you feel?”  
  
“Shit scared,” says Jack, turning round, his face wet, “what do you fucking think I feel?”  
  
“And  _why_  do you feel like that?” says Geoffrey, cocking his head, “Why are you afraid?”  
  
“Because I’m going to  _fail_ ,” says Jack, starting to cry again, “I’m going to fail and everybody is going to watch me do it! I can fucking  _see_  the audience judging me from that stage, man!”  
  
“There you go,” says Geoffrey, rubbing his hand on his thigh, “don’t you see? You found him.”  
  
“No, I didn’t,” says Jack, wiping at his face, and Geoffrey chuckles, says, “You don’t think Hamlet is by his very nature performative? You don’t think he is a frightened young man with everything to lose? You don’t think he walks in front of the courtiers of Elsinore and his mind rages with his terrors? You don’t think his world is his audience, and he  _hates_  it?”  
  
“I--” says Jack, and Geoffrey smiles, says, “Play it, boy. Play it, or they laugh at us both.”

 

 

 

“I cannot tolerate the failure of the flagship production,” says Oliver, as Geoffrey shuts Jack’s dressing room door, and Geoffrey laughs, says, “Oh, fuck off, you old naysayer. It will be fine. It will be  _better_ than fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a cupboard with some props in it waiting for me to pass out on its floor.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” says Oliver, and Geoffrey pulls his coat up over his head, mutters, “Oh, God, not this fucking insanity again.”  
  
“There’s that word,” says Oliver, smoothing down the sleeve of his cream suit, “but that is not what I am here to talk about, darling.”  
  
“Fuck off,” says Geoffrey, laughing a little at the ridiculousness of it, “didn’t I just tell you that?”  
  
“Out there, in the ‘real world’, maybe,” says Oliver, miming the quotation marks with his fingers, “but in here, old boy, the rules are a little different.”  
  
“No, don’t tell me,” says Geoffrey, “you wish me to avenge your death most horrible. Oh, look at that, I’ll have to check my calendar.”  
  
“There are more things in heaven and earth,” says Oliver, ignoring him, “but what about your stage?”  
  
“What about it?” says Geoffrey, and Oliver waves an expressive hand, says, “It’s a little cluttered, isn’t it?”  
  
“But,” says Geoffrey, looking towards the stage they’re suddenly sitting in front of, “it’s totally empty--”  
  
“You can’t sleep in here, Geoffrey,” says Anna, her tone kind, “I found you that apartment for a reason. Come on, get up, Nahum wants to lock up.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You want to do  _what_?” says Richard, and Geoffrey stabs his finger at the miniature theatre, says, “A  _bare_  stage. The actors in rehearsal clothes. Focus on the text. God, I should have done this from the beginning!”  
  
“But this is the flagship production,” says Richard, “people come to see a show.”  
  
“I rather think,” says Geoffrey, frowning, “that our definitions of  _a show_  differ somewhat, Richard.”  
  
“But what if people hate it?” asks Richard, and Geoffrey shrugs, says, “Then people are stupid. What else is new?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
On an empty stage, Geoffrey bows.  
  
“Here is Elsinore,” he says, “and there is your ghost. Here are the bedchambers and the gardens, the frozen wastelands, the throne room, the seas. Here is England, too, though we shall not ever make it that far, only words for us, there. Here, actors mine, what you see is king.”  
  
“But there’s nothing there,” says Jack, and Geoffrey claps his hands together, laughs, says, “Yes.  _Exactly_.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Ah, I get it,” says Nahum, “the stage is his soul, is it not?”  
  
“It reminds the audience of the artificiality of theatre,” says Geoffrey, and Nahum leans against the theatre door, says, “Yes, but that is not its only function. Theatre is artificial because human emotions are not. The stage is where his soul fights, for it can do nothing else.”  
  
“Er,” says Geoffrey, and Nahum claps him on the back, says, “You always knew the antic disposition best, Mr Tennant.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Apparently, you fixed your play,” says Darren, picking mournfully at his salad, “did you have your manic break when I wasn’t there to see it? You did promise.”  
  
“Get your feet off my desk,” says Geoffrey, without looking up, “anyway, how would you know? You wouldn’t know a good play if it smacked you in the face.”  
  
“I would beg to differ, but I still have the scars,” says Darren, and Geoffrey gives him the finger, says, “Some of us have work to do, you know.”  
  
“Yes, what  _are_  you doing?” says Darren, and Geoffrey mutters, “Trying to get you to leave, and you, as ever, cannot take a hint.”  
  
“Well, you could have just said,” says Darren, and Geoffrey pulls a face, says, “I did. Go away. Your jacket is giving me a headache. Tell me, did you have to  _request_  the blue and orange stripes?”  
  
“Actually, yes,” says Darren, and stands up, leaving his salad on Geoffrey’s desk, and stretches, “I suppose next you’ll be telling me it came to you in a dream.”  
  
Geoffrey freezes just long enough for it to be noticeable, then says, “And take your fucking oily French leafy nonsense with you.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Can I talk to you?” asks Kate, and Geoffrey sighs, says, “Well, I don’t see why not. Everyone else does.”  
  
“I tried to get Claire to stop doing, er, that,” says Kate, and Geoffrey nods, says, “I appreciate the effort, but as my patient and detailed explanation of my own chequered mental health history failed to rectify the problem, I have rather given her up as a lost cause.”  
  
“Is that, oh God, sorry, I shouldn’t be asking that question,” says Kate, her eyes widening with horror, and Geoffrey says, very gently, “Is that what?”  
  
“Is that what it felt like?” says Kate, “Like something eating at you all the time?”  
  
“Yes,” says Geoffrey, blunt and kind, “sometimes. The first time, that felt like being shot in the chest. I can still see every face of that audience, still feel the ache in my chest as it all fell away. Then it felt like drowning. At other times it felt like flying, and don’t ever believe them when they say that’s better; it’s not. Then it felt grey, for a long, long time. That, no matter what they say, wasn’t better, either.”  
  
“What does it feel like now?” says Kate, totally transfixed, and Geoffrey smiles, says, “Now? Now it feels like cycles. Flashes. Waking up shaking; realising it’s three in the morning and you haven’t eaten since breakfast. It feels like a lot of things, but none of them were things Claire was doing.”  
  
“I’m so sorry,” says Kate, and Geoffrey says, “Don’t be. It’s not a thing that happened, merely a thing I am.”  
  
It’s an hour before he realises what he said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Did you know,” says Darren, “that the that sergeant who arrested us specifically told me that if I ever caught you drinking again to call the police?”  
  
“You’d be better off calling a priest,” says Geoffrey, slamming the bottle back on his desk, and Darren shrugs, says, “He told me that, too.  
  
“Really?” says Geoffrey, shoving his hair back with one hand, “Ye gods. I must look a desperate man.”  
  
“Says the man drinking in his office at one in the afternoon on a Thursday,” says Darren, and Geoffrey laughs, says, “Says the man  _talking_  to the man drinking in his office at one on a Thursday, all while wearing pink jeans, I might add.”  
  
“I bought these in Munich,” says Darren, sniffily, “and if you’re going to insult me you might as well share.”  
  
“Fuck off,” says Geoffrey, thickly, and Darren puts his hands on his hips, says, “Excuse you. Don’t make me get Oliver. You  _know_  I will.”  
  
“Bastard,” hisses Geoffrey, and passes the bottle over.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“If you cry on me, I shall leave,” says Darren, sitting against Geoffrey’s (locked) office door, and Geoffrey sniggers, says, “Yeah, because  _that’s_  never happened the other way around. Dare I remind you of our senior year production of  _Othello_? Oh, look, I believe I do.”  
  
“The man nearly cut my finger off, Geoffrey,” says Darren, his eyes narrowed, and Geoffrey laughs again, says, “No, he didn’t, Darren. I know he didn’t. I was  _there_.”  
  
“Fucking incompetent stage manager,” says Darren, swallowing another mouthful of brandy, and Geoffrey snatches the bottle back, says, “Oh, God, do you remember that  _Tempest_  you did?”  
  
“I remember you ripping my scenery apart with your bare hands and yelling ‘fucking dramatic irony’, if that’s what you mean,” says Darren, elbowing Geoffrey just a bit too hard, so the brandy spills on Geoffrey’s knees, “did you have to do it on opening night? I mean, really, Geoffrey, it was a bit much, even for you.”  
  
“Do you know, I don’t think I’m ever going to regret that,” says Geoffrey, and Darren narrows his eyes, starts, “You were an  _asshole_ \--”  
  
“Nope!” says Geoffrey, “You set it in  _Nazi Germany_ , I have revoked your privilege to call me that for all of time. Anyway, you were the one who threw paint on the stage for that  _Titus_  of mine.”  
  
“Not enough blood,” says Darren, “and at least I was brave enough to put a horse in mine.”  
  
“Your horse shat on your Lucius!” says Geoffrey, and Darren leans in, hisses, “Your Tamora lept from the stage and tried to punch me!”  
  
“I always liked that girl,” says Geoffrey, wistfully, “once she broke my collarbone.”  
  
“What are we doing, Geoffrey?” says Darren, his mask slipping, just for a second, and Geoffrey sighs, takes another swig, says, “I don’t know, Nichols. I don’t know.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I am the very model of a modern Major-General,” says Richard, and Geoffrey narrows his eyes, says, “Oh,  _fuck_ , what did I  _drink_?”  
  
“I know the kings of England,” says Richard, and Geoffrey waves a hand, says, “Fuck off, Richard. You are, as in life, superfluous.”  
  
“But I have a message--” says Richard, and Geoffrey rolls over, says, “Sing to me again from that fucking excuse for a piece of drama and I will wear your entrails as a hat.”  
  
“But--” says Richard, and Geoffrey shuts his eyes, intones, “ _Hat_.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Dim the lights!” yells Geoffrey, his arms windmilling, “Make them red! Jack, make me  _feel_  it. This man killed your father, and now he laughs at you! He  _fucks_  your mother and you see the images every time you close your eyes. You are utterly convinced that you’re going to do it, you are going to  _eat his heart_ \--”  
  
“Now, I could drink hot blood,” says Jack, and shivers run down Geoffrey’s spine.  
  
“My boy’s got it!” says Geoffrey, and Claire runs down-stage, says, “Could I talk about--”, as Geoffrey roars, “ _You’re not even in this scene--_ ” and then she promptly falls off the stage.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You pushed her, didn’t you? It’s okay, you can admit it, I’ve already not called the police on you once,” says Darren, lounging like a king in an emergency room chair, and Geoffrey hisses with fury, says, “Oh my  _God_ , Darren, what is  _wrong_  with you? I should say yes, just to see your face.”  
  
“I’m just saying, I would’ve pushed her,” says Darren, and Geoffrey laughs, high and wild, says, “I  _know_  that, Darren, but entertain for a second the notion that not absolutely everyone in the world is like you. What are you even doing here? Don’t you have a cast of your own to slaughter?”  
  
“And miss the drama of a fake ingenue in traction?” says Darren, flipping open a magazine with practiced boredom, “ _Never_. Are you sure you didn’t engineer the fall somehow? I can pretend to be moralistic and judgemental about it, if it makes you feel better.”  
  
“Why would  _you_  want to make me feel better?” says Geoffrey, his foot tapping a staccato beat on the floor, and Darren turns to him, says, incredulous, “Are you on quite a lot of drugs?”  
  
Geoffrey frowns and says, “Yes, I thought that went without saying?”  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” mutters Darren, viciously turning a page of Vogue, and Oliver storms out of one of the doctor’s offices, says, in a tone like ice, “Well done, Geoffrey, she’s not dead.  _But you might be, yet_.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You’ve ruined this play,” says Ellen, mutinous, and Geoffrey rolls his eyes, says, “Quite the opposite, and we all know it. Now we shall have an Ophelia who only plays vacant when appropriate.”  
  
“Being cruel about a girl with a broken leg,” says Ellen, folding her arms, “you’re all class, Geoffrey Tennant.”  
  
“Well, yes,” says Geoffrey, with a horrible smile, “and wouldn’t  _you_  know?”  
  
“Oh, for God’s sake,” says Oliver, throwing down his pen, “what is  _wrong_  with the two of you?”  
  
Geoffrey walks slowly and dramatically to Oliver’s office door, slams it shut, and then whirls around, his eyes intense with rage.  
  
“What is  _wrong_  with me? Shut the fuck up, Darren, what are you even doing here-- No, shut  _up_! What is  _wrong_  with me? Oh, let me try and guess! Could it be the fact that seven years ago my girlfriend fucked my best friend? That my best friend fucked my girlfriend,  _when he doesn’t even like girls_? That in the ensuing triggering of my latent bipolar disorder - yes, I  _said it_ , are you happy now - I lost my home, my job, my friends, and all control over my life? I went to live on a mental ward where I  _wasn’t allowed forks_! And now,  _now_ , you all want me to come back here, and pretend it never happened?”  
  
“I don’t want you to pretend it never happened,” says Darren, raising a hand, “and, oh, look, you promised me front row tickets and here we are--”  
  
“And  _you_ ,” rails Geoffrey, “you, you Brecht-loving, dressed-by-Walt-Disney-in-Hell pretentious  _bastard_ , who even  _called you_ \--”  
  
“Right,” says Oliver, “everyone who has never slept with Geoffrey, I think it’s time for us to leave. This is clearly a spat that is romantic in nature.”  
  
“It is  _not_ ,” growls Geoffrey, as nobody but Oliver moves, and Darren shrugs as they all turn to look at him, says, “What? I’m not leaving. I fulfill that sadly rather lax criteria, I am ashamed to say.”  
  
“Oh,  _God_ ,” wails Ellen, and almost takes the door off its hinges in her wake.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I’m not talking to you, Darren,” says Geoffrey, and Darren snorts, says, “Oh, you’re going to move into your car on a permanent basis, instead? That sounds eminently practical.”  
  
“Fuck off,” says Geoffrey, slamming his hands against the inside of his car window, “you just  _outed_  me, Darren. Actually, you know what, no, I’m not upset about  _that_ , that was the worst-kept open secret in the world, and a stupid thing to be upset about besides. No, Darren, I’m upset because you  _outed me as having ever had sex with you_.”  
  
“Geoffrey, darling,” says Darren, “don’t you understand, yet? Oliver and Ellen are the only people in the whole of theatre who don’t know about that time in your dressing room at  _Henry V_.”  
  
“Argh,” says Geoffrey, eloquently, and Darren throws his hands up in the air, says, “Will you at least let me in the fucking car? I refuse to stand here yelling like something from Williams, it’s most undignified.”  
  
“What do you know about dignity?” says Geoffrey, and, with bad grace, unlocks the passenger door.  
  
“About as much as you, I’d surmise,” says Darren, getting in with a scowl, “now, where are we going?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Heads,” says Darren, and Geoffrey squints, says, “That’s my line.”  
  
“Oh, is it,” says Darren, “oh, well. It’s getting rather hard to tell, isn’t it?”  
  
“To tell what?” says Geoffrey, but the sinking feeling in his chest tells him that he already knows.  
  
“Us  _apart_ , of course, idiot,” says Darren, “fucking hell, apparently I did understand this play better than you did. Score one for me.”  
  
“You never understood this play,” says Geoffrey, who, he notices, is sitting on the floor with his hands on his ankles, an echo of a stage from seventeen years ago.  
  
“How would you know?” says Darren, and Geoffrey shrugs, flippant, says, “Oh, I don’t know. It bored you. There was a marked lack of opportunity to set things on fire.”  
  
“Well, there is that line about--” says Darren, and Geoffrey buries his head in his hands, says, “No, Darren, don’t you dare remind me about what you did with that smoke machine. You are such a fucking _literalist_.”  
  
“I’m quite the opposite,” says Darren, smiling, and he’s wearing a doublet, gilt-edged and blue, another echo of a stage Geoffrey hasn’t seen in more than fifteen years.  
  
“That you are,” says Geoffrey, and Darren smiles again, says, “We can never die, you know.”  
  
“Oh,  _whatever_ , Rosencrantz,” says Geoffrey, and Darren’s smile turns dangerous as Geoffrey realises his slip.  
  
“Are you happy?” says Darren, and Geoffrey replies, “I have no desires,” even though he knows it’s the wrong line.  
  
“We can never die,” repeats Darren, and it’s not a line, it was never a line, but he follows it up with, “now you see me, now you--”  
  
“Wake up,” says Darren’s voice, from the front seat, “it’s your turn to drive, fucking lay-about.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Where the hell are we?” says Geoffrey, sitting on the hood of his car, staring at a place that could well be virtually anywhere, and Darren glares at him, says, “How should I fucking know? God, Geoffrey. It’s not like I’ve ever lived here for more than a few months at a time, at best.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, do they not have road signs where you come from?” says Geoffrey, and Darren wrinkles his nose, says, “You are a delight in the morning, much as I remembered you to be.”  
  
“Oh, we’re back to that, are we?” says Geoffrey, and Darren’s shoulders freeze, hunching over his coffee, his breath mist in the early morning air, and he says, soft with anger, “What do you want me to do about it, Geoffrey? We’re actors. As if you’d only ever fuck your  _female_  co-star.”  
  
“ _Co-star_ ,” repeats Geoffrey, mockery in his voice, and Darren narrows his eyes, says, “Yes, do be a shit about it, why don’t you? Do be a shit about how you were always the better actor, the better director, how you made the stage come alive whether you were on it or in front of it. Do be a shit, Geoffrey, God knows I don’t need the help to hate you.”  
  
“It’s not my fault that you’re jealous,” says Geoffrey, startled, not quite knowing what to say, and Darren smirks, says, “I never said that I was jealous. You surmised that, and you did not necessarily surmise correctly.”  
  
“Oh, I think I did,” says Geoffrey, grinning, and Darren just breathes out again, mutters, “Hmm.”  
  
“I can’t go back there,” says Geoffrey, the hand that holds his coffee shaking, and Darren sighs, says, “Oh,  _please_. As if you’re the only one who knows what it feels like to be betrayed.”  
  
“I never betrayed you,” says Geoffrey, and Darren smirks again, a little sad around the edges, says, “And you’ll think that to the day you die; I know you. I also, as always, know better.”  
  
“What did I--” says Geoffrey, and Darren drinks his coffee, watches the sun rise, says, “Don’t strain yourself, Tennant. You’ll never work it out, anyway. Look at the horizon, isn’t that the sort of ridiculous horseshit you’re supposed to do when having a crisis of the soul?”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Geoffrey, glancing over, meeting Darren’s eye, just for a second, “you tell me.”  
  
“Ugh,” says Darren, rubbing his hands together for warmth, “start the fucking car again, would you? I think I’m losing the ability to father children.”  
  
“Yeah, like  _that’s_  a shame. Shut up and do it yourself,” says Geoffrey, tossing him the keys, “if you don’t fill it with all your hot air first.”  
  
“Not even close to your famous wit,” says Darren, but he’s smiling anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Oh, I see you’ve graced us with your presence,” says Oliver, his face pale with fury, “I trust you buried Darren in a shallow grave in the woods somewhere?”  
  
“Darren is brushing his teeth and yelling about how my heart was never open to German theatre,” says Geoffrey, then, holding up his hands in a universal gesture of surrender, “no, wait, please, I know, okay? I know.”  
  
“No, Geoffrey,” says Oliver, his hands white-knuckled on the edge of the desk, “I don’t think you quite do.”  
  
“Well, so what if I fucking  _don’t_ , Oliver,” says Geoffrey, his hand twisting into his hair and pulling with frantic distraction, “I don’t even want to be here! And you are sitting there,  _judging me_ , when you are the cause of why I left in the first place!”  
  
“And you have to  _get over it_ ,” says Oliver, and then shakes his head as Geoffrey goes  _white_ , “no, God, man, not whatever it is that’s rattling about up there, I’m sure that’s here to stay, but what happened seven years ago. You have to move on. We  _all_  have to move on.”  
  
“Ha!” says Geoffrey, tugging so hard at his hair he can feel his scalp starting to bruise, “You’re not even  _sorry_ , are you, you fucking bastard?”  
  
“Of course I’m sorry,” says Oliver, sadly, “but in the face of things, it’s a moot point.”  
  
“Yes,” says Geoffrey, rubbing at his face, “oh, God. Yes, it is.”  
  
“Yes, it is,” says Oliver, and then, with that wicked smirk of his, “ _Darren_ , my boy?  _Really_? Do tell.”  
  
“Yes, really,” says Geoffrey, his eyes distant, “and it was fantastic. Don’t tell Ellen. Or tell her. What the fuck do I care, it’s not really about that any more, is it?”  
  
“I don’t know, Geoffrey,” says Oliver, as Geoffrey scrabbles for the door handle, “is it?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“This,” says Geoffrey, his arms spread wide, “is a  _play_.”  
  
“Fucking headcase,” mutters Ellen, and Geoffrey snorts, says, “Probably! But as it stands, this is a play about madness, and therefore I cannot bring myself to care too much. Jack, you’re up! Make it  _hurt_.”  
  
“You could have told me, you know,” says Ellen, settling into the seat next to Geoffrey as Jack begins, “O, that this too too solid flesh would melt--”  
  
“Told you what?” says Geoffrey, and Ellen rolls her eyes, says, “Oh, Geoffrey, don’t play your games with me. You  _know_  what.”  
  
“Oh,” says Geoffrey, smiling, just a little, “ _that_. Well, I just always assumed you already knew.”  
  
“But you hate him,” says Ellen, frowning with confusion, and Geoffrey shrugs, says, “And? I hate you. I hate Oliver. I simply do not  _only_  hate, and hate alone.”  
  
“You don’t only hate me?” says Ellen, and Geoffrey smiles wider, says, “Ellen, I have never only hated you. It’s rather been the problem.”  
  
“The problem?” says Ellen, and Geoffrey’s smile turns sad as he says, “But perhaps it is a problem no more.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Can I talk to you, again?” says Kate, and Geoffrey shrugs, says, “Again, everybody else does. I think I must wear a sign I cannot see.”  
  
“Hmm,” says Kate, trying not to smile, and Geoffrey laughs, says, “Yes, well. Don’t remind me. What is it?”  
  
“I-- Jack wants me to go with him when he goes to film his new movie,” says Kate, and Geoffrey shrugs once more, says, “So?”  
  
“So? Do I go?” says Kate, and Geoffrey flips his razorblade across his fingers, says, “I don’t know, do you?”  
  
“But I’d have to give up Juliet,” says Kate, her eyes filling with tears, and Geoffrey puts his hand on her shoulder, says, “I can’t advise you, because to advise you I would have to have made these decisions right, but I can tell you this: it’s better to not have to choose.”  
  
“I know,” says Kate, swallowing a sob, and Geoffrey pulls her into an awkward hug, chewing on his razorblade, says, “No, you don’t. But you will, and I’m sorry that you’ll have to learn it, because it always hurts.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“We’re going to have to talk, aren’t we,” says Darren, cornering Geoffrey backstage, and it’s clear it’s not a question, his fingers nervous on a scarf of a particularly offensive shade of magenta, and Geoffrey says, “Unfortunately, yes.”  
  
Darren breathes out, heavy, and says, “Very well. Why not ruin me while I’m here, it’s what you always do, isn’t it?”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Geoffrey, his voice breaking a little, “is it?”  
  
“Oh, Geoffrey, Darren, there you are!” says Anna, running up the corridor, “Could you come with me? Richard says you’re supposed to be in a meeting, but, well, who knows?”  
  
“Hmm,” says Darren, walking away, “who knows?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You want us to... what?” says Geoffrey, his head cocked, and Richard repeats, “Update! Move into the 21st Century! Answer emails!”  
  
“Why?” says Geoffrey, chewing on that razorblade again, and Richard splutters, says, “Because that’s how we  _do_  things now!”  
  
“How who does things?” says Darren, putting the end of his pen in his mouth, absently, “Because I think you are greatly overestimating Geoffrey’s abilities with technology. Still a little bemused by fax machines, aren’t you, darling?”  
  
“Fuck you,” says Geoffrey, with no venom it in, and Oliver stifles a laugh, says, “Perhaps a computer for the directors to share, Richard?”  
  
“What, no,” says Richard, “you can’t keep doing this, Oliver, people send me emails for you all of the time, and I don’t know what all those words mean--”  
  
“Oh, we know that,” mutters Geoffrey, and elbows Darren when he starts to snigger.  
  
“Will that be all?” says Oliver, with a smile as polite as steel, and Richard slumps in his chair, says, “Shit. Yes.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“The theatre is yours,” says Nahum, and Geoffrey glances back over his shoulder as he’s leaving, says, “If you say so.”  
  
“Oh, I do,” says Nahum, and smiles.  
  
“Well, goodnight, then,” says Geoffrey, with his eyebrow raised, and walks out to his car.  
  
“You owe me a talk,” says Darren, not-quite-leaning against Geoffrey’s mud-splattered car.  
  
“You owe me two duels, a copy of  _Oedipus Rex_ , six orgasms, and a rapier,” says Geoffrey, pushing Darren away from the car door, “but who’s keeping count?”  
  
“Not here,” says Darren, and, again, it’s not a question, and Geoffrey shakes his head in agreement, (and isn’t  _that_  strange, except for how it isn’t), says, “Not here.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“We do actually have to talk,” says Geoffrey, because the spring of 1989 still echoes in his mind, and Darren sits down on Geoffrey’s threadbare couch with his nose wrinkled, says, “Giving the orders already, are we? My, you  _haven’t_  changed.”  
  
“Ellen and Oliver matter, too,” says Geoffrey, and there it is, out there, plain, something he’s been hiding from for seven years, maybe longer. ( _Much_  longer.)  
  
“Obviously,” says Darren, and Geoffrey knows him well enough to know it’s not a front. He really did know.  
  
“So what do we have to talk about?” says Geoffrey, and Darren smirks, a wicked edge to it he almost certainly learnt from Oliver, says, “Do you know, I really have no idea.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Your bedroom is hideous,” says Darren, fumbling with Geoffrey’s buttons, and Geoffrey bites at Darren’s neck while trying to rip his scarf off, says, “And your scarf is a fucking travesty, but you don’t hear me-- oh, wait.”  
  
“You’re hilarious, as ever,” says Darren, giving up and helping Geoffrey pull his shirt up over his head, and Geoffrey tosses his shirt across the room, says, “Well, yes, I do tend to think so.”  
  
“Haven’t you got something better to do with your mouth?” says Darren, and Geoffrey laughs, says, “That has never worked on me, Nichols, and you know it.”  
  
“It worked backstage at  _Faustus_ ,” says Darren, smirking, pushing his hands into Geoffrey’s pants, running his fingertips lightly over Geoffrey’s hipbones, and Geoffrey blinks, lost, and says, “That wasn’t  _fair_. You know how I feel about Marlowe.”  
  
“I bet that group of set-movers wish they didn’t, though,” says Darren, slipping his hand further down, and Geoffrey’s breath catches as he says, “As I recall, I wasn’t the one on his knees.”  
  
“Well, as you say,” says Darren, closing his fingers, “as  _you_  recall.”  
  
“I--” says Geoffrey, and Darren closes the gap, kisses him hot and wet and as hungry as he’d done at nineteen.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“It’s like going back in time, isn’t it?” says Geoffrey, into Darren’s neck, and Darren arches his back, says, “Only if your time machine smelt faintly of old socks and mildew.”  
  
“I do  _not_  have mildew,” says Geoffrey, and Darren nips at Geoffrey’s ear lobe, says, “Your bedroom talk is somewhat lacking, Tennant.”  
  
“What--  _oh_ , what would you prefer?” says Geoffrey, as Darren twists his wrist with palpable force, and Darren pulls him into another kiss, says, “Fucking  _silence_ , that’s what I would prefer.”  
  
“As if you could climax without the sound of your own voice,” says Geoffrey, and pants into Darren’s neck again, and Darren says, “That wasn’t silence--” and proves him right.  
  
“Oh, fuck off,” says Darren, to Geoffrey’s smirk, and pushes Geoffrey’s hips down, coaxes nothing like silence out of Geoffrey’s mouth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I’m still not getting you a rapier,” says Darren, smoking lazily as Geoffrey bats his smoke away, “if I die Richard’ll have my kidneys out and on offer to the highest bidder, just you wait.”  
  
“I have expressed similar sentiments,” says Geoffrey, with a small smile, and Darren smirks, says, “Surely the years of lithium has rendered them useless?”  
  
“Unfortunately, yet again--” begins Geoffrey, but Darren kisses him, the smoke still on his lips, and Geoffrey is only going to complain about that a little.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“‘Tis a tale told by an idiot,” says Ellen, and Geoffrey sighs, says, “Christ, at least stick to Lady Mac if you’re going to insult me.”  
  
“You are such a fucking mess, Geoffrey,” says Ellen, and she almost sounds fond, but not quite.  
  
“Tell me something that I don’t know, Ellen,” says Geoffrey, and Ellen’s lips quirk, and she says, “A poor player.”  
  
“Yes,  _again_ ,” says Geoffrey, and Ellen laughs, says, “Oh, Geoffrey. Don’t you understand it, yet?”  
  
“No,” says Geoffrey, honestly, “but I think I’m starting to.”  
  
“Life is but a walking shadow,” says Ellen, and he notices for the first time that her hair is midnight black and red-streaked.  
  
“Out, out, brief candle,” says Geoffrey, musing, and Ellen nods, her eyes, lined like a cat’s, watching him much too closely.  
  
“Full of sound and fury, the way you always were,” she says, her hand coming up to caress his cheek, “this is your last chance, Geoffrey Tennant.”  
  
“I’m not so sure I got a first one,” says Geoffrey, looking away from her eyes, her eyes that  _burn_ , and Ellen laughs again, says, “Oh, Geoffrey. So old, and still a child. But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.”  
  
“But it’s so  _hard_ \--” says Geoffrey, and Ellen kisses him until his eyes fly open.  
  
“I’m going to have to wear a scarf tomorrow like a student to cover this misaimed fuckery, fucking  _look_  at this,” says Darren, his hair a mess, pointing at his neck, and Geoffrey snorts, says, “You love scarves and love-bites, now as you did then. You don’t fool me, Nichols.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Geoffrey parks his car outside the theatre and Darren says, “Now I only owe you two.”  
  
“Duels, indeed,” says Geoffrey, and Darren smirks, rearranges his scarf over his (bruised) neck, and slams the door so hard that Geoffrey’s teeth rattle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I can’t do this, she  _left_  me,” says Jack, arms wrapped around his knees, crying his eyes out, and Geoffrey pats him on the shoulder, says, “It’s opening night, Jack. You have no choice. If it hurts, well, then, you must  _use_  it.”  
  
“I thought my Hamlet was afraid?” says Jack, looking up, and Geoffrey says, “He is, but perhaps we got the reason wrong. He must perform or die, but perhaps he was always afraid. Those who fight to convince others of their love are always afraid.”  
  
“But never doubt I love,” says Jack, nodding, and Geoffrey cups Jack’s cheek with his hand, says, “You’ve always been afraid. You’ve always been the boy who won’t be king. You’ve always known they’d never let you marry her. And now, now, you have to be  _everything_ , witty and deceptive and a good son and  _not insane_ , merely pretending-- but you can’t. You  _cannot_  help but be insane, so at that hurdle you fall. At that hurdle you fall, and it  _terrifies_  you.”  
  
“Okay,” says Jack, starting to pull his boots on, “oh, fuck. Okay.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Five minutes to curtain,” mutters Geoffrey, and Darren, in a particularly hideous suit of shiny gold, says, “Good. I hope the pressure kills you.”  
  
“ _Macbeth_ ,” hisses Geoffrey, “Macbeth, Macbeth, fuck  _off_ , Macbeth.”  
  
“You only curse yourself, Geoff,” calls Darren, as he slips out of the stage door.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You did it,” says Ellen, her eyes glazed, “I can’t believe you did it.”  
  
“Jesus Christ,” says Oliver, “Jesus  _Christ_ , I know.”  
  
“Your confidence in me is the wind beneath my wings,” says Geoffrey, but he kisses Ellen, hard but chaste, anyway.  
  
“What-- what was  _that_  for?” says Oliver, his eyes wide, and Geoffrey shrugs, says, “New beginnings. Or old ones. Well, who can tell.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Geoffrey,” says Kate, knocking on Oliver’s office door, “can I come in?”  
  
“Well, I am brooding in the dark, but I suppose I can make an exception,” says Geoffrey, and Kate comes in, sits down, her hands twisting in her lap.  
  
“Could I really?” she says, “Could I really ask him to stay?”  
  
“I didn’t,” says Geoffrey, so blunt it surprises even him, “but you are not me. He wouldn’t have to stay forever.”  
  
“But what if he says no?” says Kate, and Geoffrey sighs, flicks his journal shut, says, “What do you want me to say? You either love him, or you don’t. He either loves you, or he doesn’t. If he loves you, he’ll take the theatre every now and then. If you love him, you’ll go and be bored out of your fucking mind on movie sets and dream of walking the stage. You’ll love him forever, or you won’t. There’s no way to tell. Believe me, that one I know. This is all there is, in the end: what if he says  _yes_?”  
  
“Did he say no again?” says Kate, and Geoffrey opens his journal again, says, “Sadly, Kate, my situation no longer depends on a simple yes or no question. My situation is a play’s worth of dialogue, all by itself.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You’ll have to do it again, you know,” says Oliver, pushing the office door open, “every year, every season, on every night. That’s how it works.”  
  
“Oh, God,” says Geoffrey, burying his head in his coat, “I see where this is going, you’ve already told Richard, haven’t you?”  
  
“I wouldn’t be telling you if I hadn’t,” says Oliver, “ah, retirement. I shan’t leave, of course. Just be, how shall I put it, rather more  _absent_.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Geoffrey, entirely disbelieving, “I’ll bet.”  
  
“Ellen says to tell you that we’re invited to dinner tomorrow,” says Oliver, opening the door, “and so is Darren, if he promises not to wear that fucking music hall monstrosity.”  
  
“I’ll do my best,” says Geoffrey, “Ellen’s cooking, eh. I’ll make sure to eat beforehand.”  
  
“See you tomorrow, Gefforey,” says Oliver, turning to go, and Geoffrey swallows hard, says, “I love you, you know.”  
  
“I know,” says Oliver, turning back to face him, smiling, “but it’s good to hear you say it.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You need to go home, now, Geoffrey,” says Anna, “Nahum says that if Darren breaks into another props cupboard looking for you that he’s going to buy a tazer.”  
  
“Is that legal?” says Geoffrey, and Anna laughs says, “If someone I knew would know that, I would expect it to be you, Geoffrey.”  
  
“You are rather overly optimistic about my interest in weaponry,” says Geoffrey, and Anna raises a pointed eyebrow, shuts off the light.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Kicked you out, did they?” says Darren, a flash of gold in the dark, sitting on the hood of Geoffrey’s car, “Me, too. I stole some rather fabulous pantaloons, though, do you want to see?”  
  
“I can’t think of anything I would enjoy less,” says Geoffrey, fishing in his coat for his keys, “so, no, a thousand times no.”  
  
“So kind,” says Darren, standing up and stretching, and there’s a sliver of skin at his waist that Geoffrey’s eyes drop to before he can help himself.  
  
“Hmm, maybe not in the car,” says Darren, and Geoffrey snorts, says, “Yes. Know thine age.”  
  
“You’re the older one,” says Darren, and Geoffrey finds his keys and presents them with a flourish, says, exasperated, “Yes, by, like, six months. Still not over that, are we?”  
  
“Oh, never,” says Darren, “can we listen to Bowie on the way home? One of my fucking useless stage-hands gave me my CD of  _Rise and Fall_  back today.”  
  
“Only if you have the power to magically interfere with the radio station,” says Geoffrey, “what are these “CDs” you speak of?”  
  
“Luddite,” says Darren, and Geoffrey raises an eyebrow, says, “Yes, and proud. Fucking  _butterfly_  that you are.”  
  
“You say that like it’s an insult,” says Darren, “oh, by the way, have you forced that pill-addled brain of yours to start thinking about the next season? I was thinking Stoppard.”  
  
“Every exit being an entrance somewhere else?” says Geoffrey, and then, with great finality, “No. There are limits to what I will let even you slaughter.”  
  
“You say that like I’ll listen,” says Darren, and Geoffrey grins, says, “You say that like I care.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Geoffrey Tennant is a man no longer haunted by generalities, but specifics. They are, however, not the sort of specifics that you can’t forget when you turn out the light. He takes his pills, and although it still curdles in his chest that he’ll never be free of this lightning creep in his veins, of the memory of what once was and could be again, he’s resigned. It’s better to be slightly mad and know it than to be off the deep end and thinking you can swim. He mutters Shakespeare in his sleep, and in his waking hours, too. There’s an imprint on his soul, and it’s in the Bard’s handwriting. He’s the artistic director of the most prestigious Shakespeare festival in the world, and sometimes he’d pinch himself, he’s so lucky, if that didn’t bring back memories of the night he held a razor and it wasn’t mere blunted decoration. He didn’t press the razor down; but that’s not the part of this story that matters. The point is that he held it, and once you’ve held it, you can’t ever come back. The point is that he broke, not that he is broken. The point is that there is no before, and there is no after. He is what he is, and there is only now.  
  
“To be or not to be,” says Geoffrey, to an empty stage that he has not yet begun to block, and answers his own question with nothing but a smile.


End file.
